Lynna Banning (18 page)

“I always supposed household help should remain in the kitchen during a meal, not sit at the same table with the guests. Isn’t that so, Jon?”

Erika clattered the cake plate down in front of her place and bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. She would ignore the rude remark. She would cut the slices while Mrs. Benbow passed dessert plates.
She would smile and she would mind her tongue!

Holding her breath, she waited for Jonathan’s reply.

“Perfectly so, Tithonia. In all houses but this one.”

“Personally, don’t you feel your wife could be taught to manage the serving so.”

Erika slapped down the cake knife, glad the housekeeper was in the kitchen, out of hearing.

“Mrs. Benbow,” she said, her voice quiet but determined, “is a valued member of my husband’s household. She is not servant. And,” she added with calm conviction, “she is also a friend. Here, now, is Mrs. Benbow with the coffee. Missus Mayor, do you take cream or sugar?”

Jonathan’s gaze was unreadable, but she did notice that when his cup had been filled, he lifted it in a subtle salute before he put it to his lips.

She must bite her tongue for the rest of the evening. For the rest of her life! No matter how provoking Tithonia could be, Erika knew she could not, would not, allow herself to be drawn into a debate with a guest in her house. She resolved she would get through the next two hours—and the surprise for Tithonia and Plotinus’s anniversary—by acting the part of a lady. A well-mannered society lady.

No matter what.

Mrs. Benbow resumed her seat, passed the dessert plates and poured coffee. If she had heard anything from the kitchen, she gave no indication.

Choking down the thick feeling in her throat, Erika smiled at her dinner guests and forked a bite of the
tangy orange cake into her parched mouth. I
will survive this night. Survive and triumph.

Her only fear was that Jonathan would not approve of the next part of her plan.

A
ll during dinner Erika fretted silently over how to entertain her guests in some ladylike musical fashion. But what should she do? She didn’t play the harp well enough to improvise a song, but she would be expected to do
something.

The fleeting idea that had come to her earlier seemed like a childhood fantasy, but it kept recurring, and finally Erika set her mind to using it. By the time she had eaten half her portion of Mrs. Benbow’s delicious orange layer cake, she had decided what she would do. She prayed Jonathan would understand.

“Now,” chirped Tithonia as she polished off the last crumb of the generous slice of cake Erika had served her, “do tell us, Erika, what is this surprise you promised?”

Erika managed a shaky smile. Jonathan’s half puzzled,
half bemused expression gave her pause, but in the next instant she reviewed her options and stiffened her resolve.

She had no choice, really, but to try to carry it off as if she’d planned it weeks ago. Tithonia and the other guests expected entertainment in addition to dinner. Even though the prospect had caught Erika off guard, in the homes of proper ladies such things were taken for granted, and she would approach the challenge as a test of her—what was the new word she’d learned last night? Ingenuity, that was it! She hoped Jonathan would view it in the same vein. Entertainment her guests would certainly get!

“Well,” Tithonia inquired in a voice breathless with anticipation. “What may we expect?”

“And when,” echoed Gwen Shaunessey. “Soon, I hope. Mama tends to nod off after meals.” She smiled at Mrs. Madsen seated across from her. “Unless she is kept amused.”

Erika cleared her throat. “Then we will begin. First, will need a sugar bowl, an empty one. And a piece of writing paper.”

Jonathan rose instantly, strode into his study and returned with a sheet of his engraved stationery. Dumping the scant remains of the sugar bowl onto his dessert plate, he handed both bowl and paper to his wife.

He hadn’t the foggiest notion what she had in
mind, but he was intrigued in spite of himself. In fact, intrigued didn’t half describe his interest. Fascinated was more like it! He’d had no idea Erika had planned some additional entertainment for this evening. A most surprising woman he had married!

He glanced down the length of the table, watched Erika return her coffee cup to its saucer and begin to methodically tear his stationery into squares with slim, capable fingers.

“A pencil, Jonathan?”

He produced one immediately from his inner coat pocket, passed it to Mary Zabersky, who handed it to her betrothed and on down to Erika at the opposite end of the table. While Mrs. Benbow cleared away the dessert plates, Erika wrote something on each slip of paper, folded it once and dropped it into the empty sugar bowl.

She shook the contents of the bowl with childish pleasure, and Jonathan hid a smile.

“In Schleswig, where I grow up, is child’s game for birthday,” his wife explained. “Here—” she held up the bowl “—is for drawing partners for entertaining.”

Tithonia clapped her hands with glee. “My dear, what a perfectly wonderful idea!” Plotinus bobbed his head in agreement, and the others burst into excited talk. Even Mrs. Madsen perked up. Mary Zabersky and Whitman Vahl hugged each other.

“Oh, quick,” Tithonia said in a breathless voice. “Do tell us, how does the game work?”

Erika rose, the sugar bowl in her hands. “First, each person draws a name for partner. When all names are drawn, then have fifteen minutes to decide what to present. Can sing or recite or dance or.what you like. Then—” she paused for dramatic effect “—we perform for each other! Is fun!”

Her enthusiasm carried even Mrs. Madsen along on a wave of excitement. The old lady beamed when allowed to pick first, and when she drew Jonathan’s name, she fanned herself with coquettish charm.

Jonathan suppressed a groan. How in the name of all the saints could he and the frail old woman come up with anything even halfway amusing? He watched in envy as Ted Zabersky drew Adeline Benbow as his partner. At least Adeline could sing, and Ted was as accomplished on the harmonica as he was on the violin.

Tithonia’s lashes fluttered when she was paired with Whitman Vahl, leaving Mary Zabersky to team with Gwen. By default, Erika was partnered with Plotinus Brumbaugh.

Before Erika could open her mouth for further instructions, the teams scattered to various parts of the house to prepare. Gwen and Mary made a beeline for the kitchen. Ted Zabersky moved his chair closer to Adeline Benbow’s and gallantly filled her cup from
the coffee server. Tithonia collared the young Vahl boy and headed for the parlor, leaving Erika and Plotinus in the main hall.

It was a brilliant scheme, Jonathan thought. By Christmas it would be the rage at social gatherings all over the valley. He himself hadn’t felt such anticipation since he was a child in Philadelphia.

A twinge of regret nibbled at his delight in his wife’s unusual capabilities. Even with her unique approach to after-dinner entertainment, Erika had unknowingly finessed herself into a corner. Her partner, Plotinus Brumbaugh, was completely tone-deaf!

With a flourishy bow, he escorted Mrs. Madsen into his study and closed the door, his thoughts still on Erika. She had managed the dinner beautifully, conversed and poured coffee like any young woman of society. And she looked enchanting in that yellow taffeta with her golden hair braided into a crown on top of her head.

But what a source of the unexpected she was! He sighed in perplexed happiness. True, he was proud of her. Even when he didn’t understand her, couldn’t fathom why she resolutely continued to nurture parts of her daily life that had nothing to do with him, he admired her, nonetheless.

At Mrs. Madsen’s discreet cough, Jonathan jerked his attention back to the matter at hand.

At exactly nine o’clock Erika tapped on the study door. “Time is up,” she called.

The others had already gathered in the front parlor when Jonathan and Mrs. Madsen joined them. He prayed fervently they would be selected to perform first. The old lady grew more drowsy with each passing minute. She had to stay awake for her part in their presentation.

Erika
shhed
for quiet. “Our guests of honor, Missus and Mayor Brumbaugh, may now command the performers.” She resumed her seat to the rustle of excited whispering.

Jonathan found he couldn’t take his eyes off his wife. What a surprising woman, he thought again. However, her independent tendencies left him shaking his head in frustration. It was not at all how one’s wife
should
be. And yet, “should” didn’t seem to apply to Erika. She was herself first and his wife second. A new breed of woman, he recognized. One that he instinctively distrusted.

It was impossible to dislike Erika, especially at times like tonight. He knew she had worried for long hours, worked hard to make this occasion a success. And she looked so lovely doing it. Still, he acknowledged as he watched her graciously turn the festivities over to Tithonia and Plotinus, a man wanted his wife to belong to him, to be at his side, in his home, not off on her own doing God only knew what.

It was selfish of him, he admitted. But he was the breadwinner of the household. It was he who practiced a profession. Erika needed nothing beyond what he. could provide for her.

Did she?

Again the uneasy thought came.
Perhaps I am not enough for her.

“Jonathan and Mrs. Madsen will go first,” Tithonia proclaimed.

Jonathan heaved a quiet sigh of relief, set aside his wandering thoughts and offered Mrs. Madsen his arm. Together they turned to face their audience.

“‘Once upon a midnight dreary,’“ Jonathan began to recite, “‘while I pondered, weak and weary.’“ When he came to “Quoth the raven,” he stopped dramatically.

Slowly Mrs. Madsen opened her thin lips and croaked a single word. “‘Nevermore.”‘

As they continued the poem, even Jonathan was astonished at the dramatic variety the old lady conjured up for her repeated one-word utterance. When they concluded, Tithonia was so delighted she called for an encore, but Jonathan tactfully declined. Mrs. Madsen was fading fast.

Mary and Gwen Shaunessey sang three verses of “Grandfather’s Clock” from memory, and Adeline Benbow and Ted Zabersky stunned everyone by dancing an energetic Scottish jig while the onlookers
clapped time. Tithonia then persuaded Whitman Vahl to play musical selections on Mr. Zabersky’s harmonica both before and after her lengthy and spirited rendition of “The Solitary Reaper.”

Jonathan tried not to chuckle at young Whitman’s musical choices: “Listen to the Mockingbird,” and “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen.” He’d bet Tithonia missed the irony.

Then it was Erika’s turn. Jonathan held his breath as she took her place at the harp and nodded at her partner.

Plotinus inhaled deeply, and Erika strummed a single chord.

“‘Friends, Romans, countrymen,’“ the mayor bellowed.

Another chord.

Plotinus raised a clenched fist. “‘Lend me your ears!’“ It went on in the same vein, the mayor reciting the passage and Erika providing simple accompaniment, like a medieval troubadour. It was surprisingly effective.

How, Jonathan wondered, had she devised such clever utilization of a man who could not sing a single note?

She ended Plotinus’s Shakespeare reading with a rippling arpeggio, one he had heard her practice with painstaking care for weeks before the charity recital.

Erika raised her head and smiled at her guests. Her
eyes glowed with an odd look, and suddenly Jonathan studied her more closely. Her cheeks flamed, but the skin of her forehead and neck looked pale and moist. She looked fragile. Disoriented.

Something was wrong.

He moved forward, held out his arms. Erika took a single step toward him, lifted one shaking hand to her temple and collapsed.

C
holera.

Jonathan leaned his forehead against the white-painted windowsill in Erika’s tiny bedroom. He rebelled at accepting his own diagnosis, but the symptoms were unmistakable.
God in heaven, why now?
Why, when the epidemic he’d fought for endless, heartbreaking weeks was finally waning?

And oh, God, why Erika?
At his request, she had even boiled her bathwater to destroy the deadly bacillus. Unless.

Cold sweat soaked the shirt between his shoulder blades. Unless she had contracted the disease by touching something or someone already contaminated. The butcher’s counter. A doorknob in someone’s home. Those in his own house were disinfected daily by Mrs. Benbow, but Erika often left the house,
went out in the afternoon to Valey’s Mercantile, to help at church socials, on errands for Mrs. Benbow.

He resented her every absence, even her attendance at Sunday evening Methodist Church services. Maybe she had touched someone’s unwashed hand, a soiled hymnal.

For the tenth time in the past hour he felt for her pulse. Under his fingers her shallow heartbeat was irregular and more rapid than the last time.

She’d vomited all night, fought off her blankets. He brought the teaspoon of salted water to her lips, but she twisted her head away. He held her chin and tried to force the fluid into her mouth.

She would die if he couldn’t hydrate her crampracked body. It wasn’t the bacillus that took cholera victims, but the debilitating dehydration. The heart weakened and eventually failed. Once cholera struck, even young, strong bodies like Erika’s succumbed.

Why could she not have remained at home, where she was safe?
Of course, that was unreasonable. No woman deserved to be imprisoned in her house, even for her own protection. His rational mind acknowledged that truth, but at the same time his gut-level emotions willed it otherwise. Any man in his right mind wanted his wife at home, safe, did he not? Not flying about town on mysterious, possibly dangerous, missions of her own.

Good Lord, if he heard himself utter such thoughts
out loud he’d judge that he’d gone mad! The possessiveness he recognized in himself since Erika had come into his life he would not tolerate in another man. But Erika.his Erika.

He might lose her. His heart turned to ice at the thought. Mrs. Benbow brought another basin of cool water. He bathed Erika’s face and neck, dipping the soft cloth often and wringing it out with hands he could barely control they shook so violently. Her skin felt hot and sticky.

“I’ve taken the babe down to my own room,” the housekeeper said. “It’ll be safer for the child, and quieter for Erika.”

“Yes, Adeline. Thank you.” He dipped the cloth again.

“And I’m praying, Jon. You should, too.”

He couldn’t answer. He bowed his head and tried to form some words, but they slid into a fog before he could grasp their meaning.

All night he had sat at Erika’s bedside, watching her writhe in the grip of the debilitating fever. He’d left her only long enough to milk the goat for the baby’s breakfast.

In the morning Erika was worse. By afternoon, she had slipped into a stupor.

Mrs. Benbow tramped heavily up the stairs. “Saw Tithonia at the service tonight. Prayer vigils are being
held at both the Presbyterian and the Methodist churches.”

Jonathan bowed his head, his eyes burning.

Rutherford Chilcoate delivered a quart of his latest elixir formula, along with a note. “No spirits, just sarsaparilla and peppermint leaves. Two tablespoons every hour.”

Jonathan used every drop.

Tithonia paid a brief call. “My persimmons have come on, so I made up a batch of my persimmon tea. You will try it, won’t you?”

He tried it. Erika couldn’t swallow. Her heartbeat jumped and fluttered, no stronger than leaves rustled by the wind.

On the third day Micah Tallhorse appeared on the back porch, a deerskin packet in his hand. He thrust it toward Jonathan. “She drink. Make sweat.”

Jonathan folded back the corners and sniffed the dried herbs. He clasped the Indian’s hand and found he could not speak.

Micah nodded. “Bring more tonight Medicine maker must say words over.”

A hot, swollen feeling choked Jonathan’s throat. He had great respect for Indian remedies, but what Erika needed was a miracle, not just an herbal drink. Nevertheless, when he reentered the kitchen, he set the teakettle on the stove.

By evening, he knew she was dying. She had
drunk and sweated and still her heartbeat faltered. Her few words, spoken in delirium, jumbled together in Jonathan’s mind, mixed up with his own incoherent snatches of prayer.

The faint sound of a church choir drifted through the open window. “‘Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.’“

Downstairs, Mrs. Benbow stood at the stove sobbing as she heated the baby’s milk.

Ted Zabersky brought an armload of white roses and stood on the veranda, unsure what to say, until Jonathan appeared. Overcome, the old gentleman thrust the flowers into the doctor’s hands without a word, and Mrs. Benbow led the shaken man away to the kitchen for a cup of strong tea.

Jonathan mounted the stairs and spilled the roses at the foot of Erika’s bed. Their sweet vanilla scent filled the room.

Midnight came. In the dark, silent house the hall clock struck the hours with ominous regularity.
The earth turns,
Jonathan thought.
The sun rises and sets, some are born, and some.

His mind was so tired he felt numb. Detached. He sat for another hour listening to Erika’s erratic breathing, sponging her face and arms with cool water and watching the round, gold moon float outside the window. God in His mercy would not let her suffer much longer.

Two o’clock. Three. The hour when every physician knew death stalked the weak. Soon. It would be soon.

Suddenly he wanted to talk to her. “Erika,” he murmured. “Erika, listen to me.”

She moaned, her legs scrabbling under the blankets.

“Listen, my darling. I wanted to keep you.” His voice choked off, and he fought for control. “To keep you safe. I wanted nothing to ever hurt you or make you unhappy. But I failed. I couldn’t protect you from life, my dearest. I know now that you wouldn’t have wanted me to, but I would gladly give my own.”

He stopped to steady his voice. “I want.want you to know how much.” His voice broke. He smoothed the tendrils of hair from her forehead and waited until he could speak.

“Oh, my darling girl, you have taught me so much. Only now am I beginning to learn what love is, and—”

He drew in an uneven breath. “Oh, God, Erika. I don’t want you to die! I want you to stay here on earth with me. And our daughter. I want you to go on playing your harp and taking pies to those interminable church bazaars. I want you to tell Tithonia Brumbaugh to mind her own business! I want whatever
you want, my darling. Just come back.
Come back.”

Her breath rattled in, out. In again. He couldn’t stand watching her struggle. He had to do something to ease her suffering.

The harp.
She would want to hear the harp.

He eased off the bed and moved to the doorway. Down the stairs to the front parlor where the instrument stood silhouetted against the wall in the moonlight. He yanked it into his grip and muscled it to the bottom of the staircase.

He went up the stairs backward, taking a single step at a time and dragging the harp over each carpeted riser. He made slow, thumping progress, and he didn’t dare stop to rest.

The clock struck four. God would take her soon.